


hand covers bruise

by Dorminchu



Series: mourning period [8]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Compliant, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Elliot's kind of scary, Experimental Style, Gen, Hero Complex (debatably), Internal Conflict, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, POV Third Person, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-27 11:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorminchu/pseuds/Dorminchu
Summary: It's nothing personal—until she wakes up.[Set during 4x06.]
Relationships: Elliot Alderson & Mr. Robot, Elliot Alderson & Olivia Cortez (Mr. Robot), Elliot Alderson/Olivia Cortez (Mr. Robot)
Series: mourning period [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1518386
Kudos: 24





	1. Take 1

**Author's Note:**

> So… Sam giveth and Sam taketh away.
> 
> Also: This vignette deals with the aftermath of a suicide attempt, hence the rating. Viewer discretion is advised.

When he opens the bathroom door, he thinks he might have lost her.

_She's collateral_, Mr. Robot would have said. _But you can't get too upset—there will always be a few casualties in this war of ours. _So Elliot doesn't allow himself to feel, only act, quickly; blotting away the blood, checking her pulse—she's still alive, barely—before he rifles through the cabinet for something more substantial than towels—finding gauze, he tears off what he needs, wraps a strip around each wrist.

He remembers a time before this breach of trust; the same room, winter chill, warm light sifting through the same window. A comfortable gap in the moment between then and later, mere solidarity. Now there's only white noise.

He pulls back, sitting on his knees, and she's still breathing. Playing dead? Conscious, at least. She doesn't try to stop him.

Time inches by.

If nothing else, he can keep her stabilized.

He's perfectly calm. Placid, actually.

Maybe just in shock. Any sane person would be.

Breaking someone down to their core is not a process he enjoys, even through the lens of dissociation. Over time, it's become easier to stomach. So many lives have been lost. He's only putting more at risk; perspective comes naturally.

Olivia would know.

Her son is waiting for her, he thinks, with a twinge of something like jealousy. It's not about seeking her forgiveness, because he doesn't need that to ensure she's okay.

Mr. Robot attends from the doorway, silent. His expression is difficult to place because he won't look at either of them, but Elliot can sense the aspect of his own frustration circumvented into another point, away from the room in question. He doesn't feel much in the moment—remorse, fleeting—because this is nothing personal. Or else Mr. Robot is simply doing what he does best, protecting him from the worst of this.

Mr. Robot's the one who argued vehemently against doing this, attempting to hold onto some moral ground, speaking for his conscience; it's funny, how time and exposure has reversed their given roles. Elliot isn't sure which side needs that protection anymore.

But then Olivia stirs, and any lingering sense of confliction is abandoned.


	2. reprise

It's better to continue with the truth: I was able to stop the bleeding.

He gives her a minute to process the information, ensures she's bandaged properly, employing a level of care that betrays his intentions.

He isn't doing it for Mr. Robot's sake.

Olivia's eyes fall to her wrists. His hands, her arms and palms, are sticky with blood. Stray flecks dotted across her skin, pooling in the space between tile and the fabric of her blouse. The cool light streaming in from the window accentuates her pallor.

You're gonna be okay, he murmurs.

There's no reason to obliterate her.

She looks up. The deadened light in her eyes reminds him of an animal caught in a hunter's trap; her rage is tangible, like an old friend. Empathy bests him first, and he croaks:

I'm _sorry_.

The fragile silence between them is broken when Olivia inhales, exhales, sniffles, straining for composure. At last a wisp of a sigh draws out of her and she locks eyes with him, void of fear, whispers: "I don't believe you." Biting, despite her lack of control.

The knowledge doesn't hurt any more or less, but simply is what it is. He returns her phone to her and stands, poised as though to leave.

"You said the people I work for—" he stops in the doorway, turns despite himself "—they were behind the massacre in El Salado?" Slowly, he nods; Olivia's face falls in despondence. She lowers her voice as though in shame or confidence: "My mom died there."

Another, bleaker pause.

I know, he murmurs.

She's making an effort not to cry, averting her eyes, but can't help it. In another point in time, perhaps, he'd be more openly sympathetic. But he can't afford to slip. He forces himself to watch, even though he'd rather be in the hall where Robot is waiting for him.

He can feel like a shitty person later. Right now:

_Olivia._

She looks up, her eyes wet, and it's easier to steel himself if he thinks about this in terms of ensuring safety for her and her son.

I can stop them, he whispers.

Even if she won't believe him, he wants her to know.

Time is slipping through his fingers.

Eventually Olivia picks up the phone.

"Hi," her voice cracks, "um, I'm sorry to bother you on a holiday, but Mr. Kuklachev needs the authorization to transfer funds."

He doesn't hesitate, opens his own phone, checks the log. Nothing yet.

"You don't see the request? Are you sure?"

In a second or two, it's there: Dec 25 15:04:17.195, certificate: Valid. Clicks the link and he has exactly what he needs. He catches Olivia's eye and nods, curtly.

"Okay, that's strange. He said it was urgent. Maybe he changed his mind. I'll just—I'll just check back with him, and—and get back to you." The person on the other line says something indistinguishable. "…okay, thanks." Another beat; this time Olivia's voice wavers distinctly: "Merry Christmas to you too."

She hangs up.

I'll wipe all the traces of you and your boss's involvement, he tells her bluntly. Nothing will be linked back to you.

Olivia's regained most of her composure by now.

"You know, I may work for monsters," she seethes, bravery returning as she raises her head, eyes sharp and shining with a hatred he'd never wanted to see. "But you are one. And you're the worst kind, because you don't even know it."

His throat goes tight, only for a second; the feeling passes like any other.

The fucked up part is that she isn't far-off the mark, really. He's just been coming to terms with it, pushing himself onward, towards greater stakes, forever merciless. Now he's surpassed his weakness.

But it doesn't matter. He's done what he came to do, so he leaves, closing the door. He can hear her sobbing, quietly.


End file.
